


gardener's hands

by thethrillof



Category: Smile For Me (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Guilt, Holding Hands, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 07:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20188363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thethrillof/pseuds/thethrillof
Summary: Flower Kid has rough hands. It's a surprise.(Set after the best ending.)





	gardener's hands

**Author's Note:**

> not meant to be a ship w/ my flower kid, but feel free to imagine ur own here non-platonically if it pleases ya

Their hands are rough. They can tell it startles Dr. Habit the first time he touches them, pulling them up after they trip and land hard on the ground, then yanking back like his own got burnt.

They can’t tell him why without their notebook—he hasn’t learned enough of sign language for them to explain clearly—so instead, they just hold their hands out, palms up, for him to take a look. Which he does, stooping slightly. 

“…Are…you o-kay, Flower Child?” he asks after a long, long moment, angling his eyes away. A familiar happening; a simple thing can remind him of bad things; what he’s done, or what happened to him, leaving him withdrawn and guilt-ridden whether or not it should. Regrets and bad memories can't be thrown away so easily.

They nod quickly. They’re fine! After another moment, they press their hands closer, ignoring how he pulls back slightly (it makes him feel worse when they acknowledge it, so they try not to. it’s hard) and move their fingers in a grabby motion.

Hesitation.

The Flower Child ends up taking matters into their own hands by grabbing one of his, setting the tips of his fingers on their palm. It’s their turn to startle, then, when the touch leaves a slight prickle of pain. 

“Flower Child!” he yelps, but they close their hand so he can’t get away. Grimly, while he freezes, they shake their head. They have a point, here, and they want to make it before he can throw himself into another self-destructive spiral.

They open their hand, slow,_ slow,_ making sure he won’t try to get away. Above them, his teeth are showing in a hint of nervous grimacing.

Carefully, they move his one hand with their other one, tracing his claws over their palm. Moving them upward, pressing over the length of their fingers. Stopping once their fingertips are all touching each other. None of it’s smooth, with him catching bumps on their skin; new callouses, old scars. From the outside, it looks bad and feels worse. 

“…What happ-ened?” Boris is quiet.

They press their hand against his fully. Not quite palm-to-palm, since his fingers are too long for that, but the length of their fingers resting on each of his. They gesture, loosely, to the Lily in the front pocket of his new coat; then at the bouquet they left resting at their feet.

“Flowers? _Flowers_ did that?”

Nod. Flowers, gardening, delivering. None of that's as easy as it sounds. It's a complicated business, full of care and stubbornness in turn. If they weren't so used to working with plants, the pointed ends of his fingers might've made them bleed.

Boris looks stricken, pupils shrunken into horrified slits. 

But _their_ eyes are crinkled and happy.

“…I. Don't understand what you’re trying to say,” he says. “But I know it’s. Some-thing important.”

They slide their fingers between his without warning until they’re woven together. Nod, nod.

“About…your…flower hands. And…about me?” This isn’t the first time they’ve stopped everything to try something, shifting something simple into a learning experience. It always relates to him, or something he needs. 

“Your hands…aren’t soft.” Nod, nod. “The flowers _hurt _them.” More nodding, and a hand-squeeze that makes him blink and look away again.

“You still--you’re a florist. You’re _still_ a florist. You still…like the flowers.”

Yes! Exactly!

“You don’t hate them. Or me. Even though we’ve messed up.”

Messed up when they first met. Messed up before they knew how it worked, knew what was going on, knew how to handle things effectively. It happens when learning how to work with sharp leaves and thorny stems. 

That’s too tough to explain without words. It’s good enough of a start.

“And,” he keeps going unexpectedly, “Your hands are messed up. But you still use them. And show them. And…and let m--people touch them. So they’re not bad, either?” _Like his smile._

Warmth floods their chest. Yes, that too.

They squeeze his hand again, and _he_ smiles, imperfect and real.

When they return to going about their day, Flower Child doesn’t let go of his hand, and Boris never pulls it back.


End file.
